The Fear
by Collie
Summary: Spike's personal account of Woodstock.


TITLE: The Fear.   
AUTHOR: Collie.   
EMAIL: fiendishthingee@aol.com   
RATING: R. Language. Alludes to sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll.   
SUMMARY: Spike's personal account of Woodstock.   
SPOILERS: Just reference to Spike's memories in 'School Hard'.   
DISTRIBUTION: YGTS?, Through My Eyes, and any list archives. Anyone else, just ask.   
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I just make them do stupid pet tricks for the amusement of others. All real people mentioned (alive or dead) belong to themselves, or to the highest bidder.   
FEEDBACK: I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it.   
IMPROV: flow, rave, blue, fall   
NOTES: Answer to challenge #80 at YGTS? Gonzo Journalism [http://www.gonzo.org] was made popular by Hunter S. Thompson, from the late 60's to the late 70's. He was the only journalist to openly practice the style. That is what I'm trying to exemplify here.   
DEDICATION: To Kat. She's on more drugs than Spike was, I'm sure of it.   
  
  
***   
"There was madness in any direction, at any hour. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right; that we were winning."   
- Hunter S. Thompson.   
***   
  
Woodstock was a trip. I mean that literally.   
  
Dirty hippies lying all over the place, fooling the entire planet into thinking they were there for the music. Well, that's a load of rubbish. I didn't see one person there that wasn't fucked up on one thing or another. Myself included, you know.   
  
Let's think about this: Take one huge field, mix in half a million fucked-up kids, sprinkle on some music as a handy cover-up, and you have Woodstock -- the biggest collective acid trip ever.   
  
Three days of peace and love, right? Bollocks. Three days of rain, mud, sex, drugs, and violence is more like it. Can't say I don't like description better. They say that there were two deaths, but also two births, so that cancels out. There were drug busts, but no crime or proper thievery. They say that 500,000 people were left on their own and discovered a lovely, harmonious world of sharing, respect, helping, and consideration, and that they all left Woodstock with a new outlook on life -- but all I left with was a pair of muddy shoes, a scorched hand, an empty feeling in the pit of my brain, and trailing bloody colors.   
  
There's a rumor circulating that the brown acid is bad. Don't take the brown acid. But, hey man, it's your trip.   
  
That it was.   
  
I was only there for one night. It was enough. I saw the greats on stage -- Hendrix, Joplin, Garcia -- but if they were all so bleedin' great, why are they all dead? Apparently they didn't carry anything so moving with them when they left.   
  
It was too easy. Everyone was so willing, and those that weren't were so off their heads that I didn't even have to work to get what I wanted. So I didn't. It was like strollin' through a candy store with a huge sack while the dumb sod that worked the counter lie dead in the corner. I must admit, I was a little too greedy and none too cautious.   
  
LSD's a curious drug. It strips your mind and gives you this whole new outlook on things. It intensifies your feelings, emotions, fears, desires.. but muddles them so you're not sure what's what. Your thoughts flow in patterns just as strange as the colors that fall all around you. You could be lying on the ground one minute, contemplating all of the tiny molecules that make up the great universe, and the next minute you're on your feet, rantin' and ravin' about this, that, or the other thing.. and nine times out of ten, you have no idea what you're on about or why you figured it was so bloody important that everyone listen.   
  
Strange thing is -- they do. *And* they understand.   
  
I made the mistake of chattin' up some bird who had a couple tabs of the stuff. No picture on the paper, no indication of what kind it was -- just tiny blue tabs. She said it was the most, man. It'd change you in ways you've never been changed. You'd never think the same way again. You'd never feel the same way again. It would change your life forever.   
  
Well, what do you know -- she was right.   
  
I won't get into specifics, here, but let's just say that I wasn't lyin' when I said I spent the rest of the night watching my hand move.   
  
"Wait! We can't stop here! This is bat country!"   
  
Indeed.   
  
I am, however, of the opinion that LSD is not good for vampires. You see, the sunrise is ten times as glorious in the sparkles and haze of an acid trip. I discovered this first hand, and that hand in question got some lovely third-degree, flesh-melting burns on it. I spent the day trippin' under the sodding stage. Believe me -- it was difficult to find any bloody inner peace, what with all the bands stompin' away up there.   
  
And through it all, the music flowed..   
  
I left after sunset, and a more glorious sunset I've never seen. Full of colors and warmth and strange messages and whispers. I watched as the sky gave way from pale pink to orange to blue streaked through with gold, then purple, then finally black. It left me feeling oddly empty. The fact that it was gone.. that I couldn't hold on to it.. upset me. It made me.. miss the sun.   
  
That made me angry.   
  
I got what most seasoned drug-users refer to as The Fear. It comes on you quickly and has no mercy. It pulls and tugs at your anger and waters it with your paranoia and fear. It sweet-talks your darkness and caresses your rage. It was like a long-lost lover to me. I welcomed it, and I'd never felt more bloody alive.   
  
I cleared a path to the gates, leaving a trail of unconscious waste in my wake. No deaths, mind you. I didn't want them dead. I wanted them to live through this feeling many more times before they succumbed to their own end. It was just too bloody marvelous.   
  
Lifted-guilt in tab form. Write away your sanity with a dose to the tongue. Wave good-bye to your thoughts as the bitterness trickles down your throat.   
  
Beautiful.   
  
On my way out, I spotted the chit that slipped me the LSD. She still had a few of those lovely tabs of blue left. So, I liberated them from her and tore her throat out.   
  
Fatality number one.   
  
I'll tell you this -- I never ate better than I did that night.   
  



End file.
